More Zona Rosa in France

The week flew by, and it is almost unbelievable that my retreat is over and I am on my way back to Georgia, via London. In order to save money, I booked a flight through London, even though it meant
changing airports in London. It saved me $500. And it was no problem. Shuttles run continuously from Heathrow and Gatwick airports, and the transition went smoothly.

To attempt to sum up my experience in Aix is a daunting challenge for me, and I will probably be writing about it for some time. There was so much good there. The weather was perfect - warm during the days and refreshingly cool in the evenings. It was the ideal backdrop for the intensive and gratifying experience of being surrounded by accomplished writers.

This is Rosemary, beautiful in red.

We were all there for ourselves, of course, but we were also there for one another, to offer encouragement as well as gentle constructive criticism. For the first time in my life I know in my heart that I am a writer - a poet before all else but also a decent writer of essays.

Yes, I am indeed a writer. I am reminded of a question posed to me not long ago at work. A colleague asked me what I did when I was not working. I told her that I spent much of my time writing. Her response? “No, what do you really do? She assigned no value to my love of words and the joy of writing them down. Because of this Zona Rosa retreat, when I am questioned about what I do, I can honestly say, “I’m a writer, a poet.”

I came away from this experience empowered to embrace my true writer’s self. The women there validated my work, even praised it, much to my surprise. Rosemary, my writing mentor, was the one who suggested I answer the “What do you do?” question by replying, “I am a writer.”

I accomplished two of the three of my goals for the retreat. Two of the poems I took to work on are now finished pieces, ready to replace the ones I previously posted on My Poems because I didn’t know what to do with them. The third is in total rewrite and will be ready soon. I will ask Rosemary to critique it before posting it - or maybe not. I now have a certain trust in my ability now, and if I believe the poem is worthy of posting, I will post it. I’m a real writer now. Remember?



Above is a photo of a ceramics booth. Below on the right is a booth of linen scarves.

During my week in Aix, I shopped at the street markets, buying trinkets and scarves. I took a tour of the city, which drove us past Cezanne’s atelier, or studio, where he painted many of his masterpieces. There was no time to visit the studio itself, so I have another reason to return to Aix. We also saw many of the city’s famous fountains.

We ate Provençal food, drank what seemed like gallons of wine - the Rosé was fresh and wonderful, not at all like the sweet stuff that sometimes passes for Rosé here in the states. I soaked up the light, the famous light so influential in Cezanne’s decision to go there to paint. It was a magic time, refreshing and regenerating, and I came away with a sense of empowerment about my writing and about myself.

Zona Rosa in Aix-en-Provence

It’s hard to believe I have been in Aix-en-Provence since Saturday afternoon, and this is the first time I’ve felt free to publish a post on this blog. I am taking this time while most of the other participants are off touring the countryside, something I am fortunate enough to have done before.

First, after I finally got to bed on Saturday night, I slept for 14 hours and almost missed the first session of our workshop.

On Sunday night, I slept for 11 hours. That kind of sleep is not solely the result of jet lag. I was just so tired from life, from all the craziness I was enduring in Macon before I started this journey.

Our sessions have been very productive. Each day, Rosemary highlights the work of one or more writers in our group sessions, and we each have one-on-one time with her to work on our individual manuscripts and/or poems. I brought poems with me, old ones that I have been struggling for years to perfect. I brought them here so that I could get satisfied with them or just let them go.

A couple of them are already published on “My Poems,” but I have never been satisfied with them, so if you follow that blog, you will see some drastic changes in a couple of the pieces.

Today I walked to the Grand Place and sat at a sidewalk cafe and drank a class of white wine while I enjoyed the view and the people watching that is so wonderful here. The famous Fontaine de la Rotonde is mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. Although the site on which Aix was built has been occupied since 121 BC, this fountain was built in 1860 to give the city a focal point.

Aix is a city of fountains. The Romans always built their cities on ground where there is water, and before it was called Aix, this city was known as Aquae Sextiaë (The Waters if Sextius) because of the abundance of spring water and in honor of its founder, Sextius Calvinus. There are 17 fountains within the walls of the city, and they span the gamut from ancient to modern. These bubbling and sparkling gems refresh the city and enchant both tourists and locals alike.

On my way back to our hotel, “Le Mozart,” I stopped and bought half a bottle of red wine, some cheese and and bread, the perfect Provençal lunch, which I ate on the little private balcony off my “chambre.”

Be Very Careful What You Wish For

Part 1 - May 17, 2011

On Sunday afternoon, after publishing a whiny post about having misplaced my muse, I ran straight into a situation that I must write about. I don’t want to write about it, but that is one of the reasons must. I have not been able to start this post until tonight, because I worked Monday and Tuesday, and I was afraid it would become so emotional that I wouldn’t get the rest I need to work 12 hour days.

Sunday afternoon, I piled the dogs into my car and went off to Walmart. It was a cool afternoon, and they had plenty of water. Honey, the Ruler of all Dogdom, had the front seat, of course. I cracked the windows and started toward the “Enter” door at Walmart. It was breezy, and I had my head bowed into the wind, so I wasn’t aware of what was going on at the entrance. I looked up when I heard a familiar voice addressing the man in front of me. The voice was asking for money, begging.

I was instantly aware of why the voice was familiar. It belongs to Clint’s granddaughter. She and her husband were panhandling at Walmart. I almost vomited, in fact had to swallow bile at the sight of them. My heart seized, my breath came in rapid gulps; I thought I would faint.

Gathering my wits, I spoke to the two of them, asked what they were doing.

The reply? “We’re just waiting on our ride. How are you doing?”

“Doing great,” I replied and moved through the automatic door, still tugging for air, seeing stars.

As I pulled a buggy from the carefully lined rows, I glanced over my shoulder. They were already gone.

An automaton, I moved through the store, followed my list, piled groceries and other things into my buggy. By the time I checked out, my breath was normal, but my heart was still pounding.

Arriving home, I knew I had to write this down, but I was afraid to. Putting the whole nightmare into words would make it real, make me own it, and that was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to plant my head firmly in the ground and pretend it never happened.

I sat on my emotions, waited until I could make a halfway coherent recording of this story. I used work as an excuse not to address this issue, but I’m not working again until I return from France.

But I am exhausted, emotionally and physically. One of my dearest patients will not be here when I return to work. I don’t kid myself about that. I do bring work home. I wouldn’t be worth a tinker’s damn as a nurse if I didn’t.


Part 2
May 19, 2011

A little history is in order. The Beggar, who is now in her mid-twenties, was a difficult child from the beginning - disobedient, prone to outbursts and defiance of all authority figures. She could not wrap her head around the fact that there were acceptable limits to her conduct. If and when she wanted to do something, she did it, and the consequences be damned. She seemed to lack a moral compass, but she was charming and a great manipulator.

When she was 15, she “borrowed” her uncle’s SUV one night and took her 12 year old cousin on a joy ride. After running into a mailbox, she returned the car and said nothing about it. Her cousin, however, told on her. To this day, The Beggar has never understood what the big deal was. When faced with the fact that she could have harmed her cousin as well as herself, her reply was, “Well, only the car got hurt.” End of conversation.

On another occasion, she set her grandmother’s carpet aflame while smoking a cigarette she pilfered from her.

Punishment was never effective. Taking away her TV or her CD player or her MP3 player never phased her. In answer to her punishment, which was frequent, she sneaked out of the house, and her boyfriend picked her up at the end of the street, and off they went to buy cigarettes and beer with the money she stole from her mother’s purse.

A bright young woman, she made passing grades, studying only enough to keep herself out of trouble with her parents. After graduation from high school, she came to our house on St. Simons Island for the summer. Clint and I thought a change of venue and some separation from her parents would be good for her.

She was with us six weeks when she got her first DWI. We let her sit in jail for three nights, hoping to get her attention. Nothing worked. She had a job at a local restaurant and took to staying after work to drink with her coworkers.

We grounded her, allowing her use of her car only to travel to and from work. Her bedroom was at the opposite end of the house from ours, and she began to sneaking.

I could go on for pages, but I’ll just say we had to ask her to leave, find other living arrangements. I think she slept in her car for a while. She finally talked her parents into letting her come home, charming them with promises that she would not break house rules. Over the following years, she was arrested repeatedly for DWI, driving without a license, stealing, underage drinking. Finally, her parents asked her to leave.

Two years ago, she started dating her cousin’s ex-husband, and when he won a million dollars with a scratch-off lottery ticket, they got married. Without going into details, I’ll just say that now they are broke, flat broke, as witnessed by the scene I encountered on Sunday. They both had the dark, hollow, sunken eyes of the addicted.

That image is burned into my brain.

A Ramble

Sitting up on my bed, which is where I usually write, I am surrounded by my three dogs. They are sleeping quietly, but I am jittery from trying to force myself to create a blog post. My last post was on May 1, over two weeks ago, for God’s sake, and here I sit, wondering what will inspire me. I have not even the germ of a new poem inside my head. Maybe I’m a binge writer. I published four rather long posts between April 24 and May 1.

Oh, I have written posts for the memes in which I participate, but I haven’t come up with a blog post. I have set up a blog for my granddaughter, Addie Duck, and listed it on this site. I am managing it for her for now because she is swamped with final exams.

It is entitled “Addie’s Attic,” and she has never had a lesson in writing poetry. I think she shows impressive potential as a poet. She is very left brained, math and science oriented, athletic and very competitive. She never does anything halfway, never gives up.

I am dreaming that this blog will inspire her to write, even if she does want to be a neonatologist. After all, doctors can also be poets. Please click on her button and leave her a comment. She has received a number of comments but they came to my web site before I put up her blog.

This Friday, I am traveling to Aixe en Provence in the south of France to participate in a writer’s retreat hosted my Rosemary Daniell, my writing mentor.

I have several poems to work on, and yesterday afternoon, I started on one of them and just stared at it and stared at it some more. When I started to edit it but could not decide what shape I wanted it to take. The rhythm was all wrong, and meter became my enemy. When I'm done with this ramble, I plan to go back to that poem - or not. Maybe I should work one of the others.

Here’s hoping I will be inspired while in France. There is magic in the air of Aixe. I am fortunate to have visited there a couple of times before. There is incredible Roman architecture and there are museums and churches and the weekly market from which to feed my muse. Arles, which is not far away, is where Vincent painted some of his most important pieces. Just breathing in the air should be inspirational.

Sugar

Belle and Honey and I have a new member of our little family. His name is Sugar, and we rescued him. The name his irresponsible former owners gave him is Sugar Ray. Cute, real cute. I abhor the “sport” of boxing, so we dropped the Ray from his name. He is definitely a Sugar, a lover, not a fighter.

The only good thing I can say about his former so-called family is that they had enough sense to surrender him to Save-A-Pet. That was after they had used him for target practice with a shotgun. No shit. The vet who cared for him after his surrender picked buckshot from all over his precious body. He treated gashes behind Sugar’s ears that looked as though his head had been stuck in a barbed wire fence.

His former owners also neglected to take proper care of him, failing to give him heartworn prevention medicine or to feed him properly. Yes, when he was surrendered, he had heart worms, a severe case, according ot the vet. He actually said he had never seen such a severe case of heartworm where the dog survived the treatment. Sugar was rail thin, which is no surprise.

So, there is a reason Sugar is not in Doggie Heaven. He was meant to live with us. A couple of months ago, while dropping my dogs at Kottage Kennels for the weekend, I fell in love with Sugar. He was in a large kennel in the lobby, and I was drawn to him, even before I knew he was up for adoption. It was love at first sight. When the kennel owner told me he would be up for adoption after he had completed his heartworm treatments, I gushed, “Oh, he’s coming to live with us! Can we adopt him?”

Without hesitation, she said “yes.” She offered that another family had expressed a desire to adopt Sugar, but that she didn’t have a good feeling about them, and she turned them down.

It was meant to be! There was a caveat, though. He had to remain at the kennel until the vet was certain he was free of heartworms and able to run and jump and play without compromising his health.

So, we waited for several weeks, and finally we were allowed to bring Sugar home with us. Honey stuck up her nose at him, even snapped at him, feeling certain that someone was coming to pick him up. Belle was a little miffed, too.
Honey is the Lhasa Apso, and Belle, the senior citizen of the group, is the Boxer lying down on the foyer rug.

But, after a couple of weeks, they both realized Sugar wasn’t going anywhere and begrudgingly began to make friends with him. This acceptance came only after Honey had attacked him, driving him to jump out of the playpen. They made so much racket that the glass break alarm went off! I got Sugar a large kennel of his own, and that fixed that.

As you can see from the photo below, Sugar fits right in here in our little cottage. We just love him to pieces!


© cj Schlottman

Choices

At the risk of sounding like I'm whining, I am publishing this post because I need to.


Why is it that the things we least want to write about are some of the most important? It happens to me often, and I have to force myself, push myself hard, to write down my truths. This post is one I have been putting off for two weeks.

Why must a mother endure the loss of a son who is still alive? Can anyone answer that question? No. There is no answer, just the fact that it is true.

Once again, my son Parrish has dropped off the wagon and gone underground. When he stops contacting me, it is never good. Understand that I know where he is, at least I think I do, but I have chosen to distance myself from him because his behavior is self-destructive and too painful for me to watch. I wrote him a letter to that effect.

During his years in Atlanta, Parrish lived in a number of places - under bridges, in parks, at one of his girlfriends’ apartments. These “girlfriends” were drinking and drugging buddies, and they floated in and out of his life, always ready to get high. There were the inevitable break ups, but they always managed to find Parrish, or he them, and the cycle began again. He subsisted on whatever he could get by selling items he shoplifted and was arrested a number of times. The only time he contacted me was when he was in jail. He always wanted me to send money to bail him out. I steadfastly refused, but he never stopped trying. Since his crimes were petty, he was inevitably released on probation, which he consistently violated.

These women, Lisa and Angela, were, and still are, poison for Parrish. They are emotional black holes who sucked him into their lives, manipulated him, then kicked him out when they had no more use for him. He was a willing participant in these cycles of toxic behavior; something always made him go back.

For the last six weeks or so, I have known that things are not what they seem to be. Before Parrish went missing in late March, (The 48 Hour Day) I was concerned about his tone of voice, his slurred speech, his constant phone calls (four or five a day) to say how much he loved me and how lonely he was and how he couldn’t wait to meet me in Atlanta for the weekend of April 16. When I challenged him on his slurred speech, he blew it off by saying he had just taken his Ativan and was sleepy from it. Now I wonder if he landed in hospital for his stated reason - lithium toxicity. I don’t know what to believe.

Two days before he was to fly to Atlanta and spend the weekend with me, he backed out, saying he had a relapse, was back in outpatient rehab. That’s when the red flags popped up. Parrish not wanting to come to Atlanta, the place he insists he wants to eventually make his home again, where his best friend lives, where the two of us have found a neutral ground where we can actually enjoy each other? Given his recent phone behavior, I had my doubts but didn’t question. Honestly, if he relapsed, I didn’t want to hear about it. I am so utterly tired of him, I could scream.

There. I said it. I’m exhausted from his neediness, his duplicity, his lies.

This time it is Angela. They have been in touch via phone and facebook. How do I know this? Parrish’s best friend, Michael, called and told me. He is the essence of a good friend. Michael loves Parrish, wants him to be clean, behave, stay away from toxic situations. He loves him enough to tell on him, even if it means making Parrish mad.

My son knows I will not support his “friendship” with this dangerous woman. I have made that clear since he landed in Miami, over 650 miles from her. He has assured me all along that he wants nothing to do with her or Lisa.

So, what is going on? My guess is that he has been drinking and drugging for at least the last six weeks, and he must have called Angela because she had no way to contact him. (Or maybe she did). I feel as though he just spit in my face. Really. I do.

Parrish cannot use his mental illness to excuse this behavior. He made a choice when he called Angela. He made a choice to start drinking and using again. And I made a choice to distance myself from him because he did.


© cj Schlottman

Baby Skye

Disclaimer: This series in no way represents real patients. It is a compilation of many different patients and many different situations. Any resemblance to actual patients is purely coincidental. There is no such thing as a typical day in hospice care. Some are busier than others and each individual patient has his or her own special needs.


Skye is 15 years old. In fact, we share birthdays, and I will remember her every year for the rest of my life. She has brain cancer, gleomastoma multiforme, and she has been fighting it since she was 11. We have her now for end of life care after a series of palliative operations and radiation. It has been along four years for Skye and her family.

She cannot talk or use any of her extremities, her arms and legs as flaccid as cooked spaghetti. Occasionally she opens her eyes, but it is impossible to determined whether or not she sees anything. Probably not. What is certain, however, is that she responds to the closeness of her mother. When Amanda climbs into bed with her, or even when she sits at her side and holds her hand, Skye’s face visibly relaxes. Even though in a coma now, she knows when her mother is near, and I believe she hears her voice, in spite of profound hearing loss brought on by the aggressive tumors in her brain.

Why Baby Skye, you may ask? When her cancer was diagnosed at age 11, her growth stopped, due in part to the radiation treatments meant to shrink her tumors and relieve her of the headaches that attend this kind of cancer. She has an infantile demeanor, a round face which was caused by all the steroids used to relieve her symptoms. She stopped swallowing before she came to us and was getting tube feedings, and she continued to get them until her system could no longer tolerate them, was too tired to process nutrients. The skin on her hairless scalp is mottled from the same radiation that stunted her growth. She indeed, looks like a baby angel as she moves toward her passing. As always, Simba, souvenir of her trip to see "The Lion King" on Broadway is tucked under her left arm.

It has been my honor to care for her, advocate for her, support her parents through Skye’s inevitable passing from this world. We, her parents and I, have prayed for her, for a peaceful passing. We have prayed that our hands be blessed as we minister to her final needs. We have cried together, laughed together, and loved this precious child together.

Back at their home, Skye’s younger sister, Mia, waits. Her grandmother is with her, trying to make her life as normal as possible, packing her lunch and sending her off to school every day, helping with her homework. Mia is afraid of Skye’s cancer. She wonders if it will happen to her. Cancer affects everyone close to it and some who aren’t. It is a monster with a long reach.

I am going to climb up on my soap box for just one paragraph.

Last Tuesday, when I first met her, Skye was suffering with a harsh death rattle, sounding as though she were drowning in her own respiratory secretions. She had mucous draining out of her nose and the corners of her mouth. The night nurse didn’t work on them as hard as she should have. She tried to suction them out, but to no avail. Suctioning secretions is, for me, a last resort. It traumatizes the patient and never produces the desired result because it does nothing to dry the secretions at the source. Believe me when I say that I would never hand a patient over to the next shift in that condition. We have a plethora of standing orders to treat pain and secretions. If they didn’t do the job, then the nurse should have called our medical director, even if it was the middle of night. (End of rant).

I spent 12 hours working to dry those secretions, giving her something about every 30 minutes for the first 6 hours of my shift. When my shift was over, I handed her care over to a wonderful nurse in whom I have complete confidence. Skye was breathing easy and her secretions were almost gone. I knew Hannah would finish what I had started.

When I arrived at work the next morning, I found Skye at peace and breathing without difficulty. Amanda and her husband, Keith, were asleep in the daybed in Skye’s room, so I quietly checked on my Baby Skye and tiptoed out of the room, breathing a sigh.

Before being downsized, I was to have worked yesterday. Instead I found myself at home and thinking about Skye and her family. So, I dressed to do my errands, loaded my dogs into the car and went to see her. I found her peaceful and breathing easy, actively dying, her angelic face relaxed and her eyes closed. The ever present Simba was tucked under her left arm, just like always.

I spent about an hour with Amanda, and she didn’t stop talking the whole time. She showed me pictures of Skye before she got sick. She talked about how brave her little girl is, what a tough fighter she is. We shared stories about our pets, about men, about parenting and about death. Amanda is ready to let Skye go. All she asks is that she be comfortable.

Likely, Skye will be gone when I return to work next Wednesday. She came into my life just a few days ago, but she will never leave. She is the first child I have cared for, and though I knew it would be hard, I never dreamed it could be this beautiful.

© cj Schlottman

Downsized

It happened yesterday. After being in budget meetings all day on Monday, my manager came in and immediately started toying with the schedule. I commented that she looked as though she were struggling with it, and she sheepishly looked up at me and said, “We need to talk when you have a free minute.”

I have known since I began working in hospice care that our facility is overstaffed. We, the staff, from time to time have bantered about the idea that, if the patient census did not grow and maintain itself a near capacity, some or all of us would eventually be asked to cut back our hours. The entire staff has been asked to take PAL (Paid Annual Leave) when the patient census is low. I have not accrued any leave yet, so I was spared that - until now.

So, I was not surprised when I met with Frances and she asked me to drop one day a week from my schedule. The old “First Hired, First Fired” rule. Only I was not fired, thank God. I was almost relieved, concerned only about my benefits package. She assured me that I would not lose my benefits, and I breathed a sigh. At 63, it would be impossible for me to find affordable health insurance. Scary, very scary.

Interestingly, lately I have been thinking about my job in terms of what it is taking out of me. Just last week, I entertained the idea of talking to Frances about not working three days in a row any more. I am 63, and on my third (12 hour) day in a row, I am not at top form. It is hard on me because I push myself to my physical and mental limits to make sure my patients don’t suffer because I have brain and body drain. The first day after my three shifts is lost to sleep, a little writing and in general, taking care of myself.

Now, allow me to back up for a moment. One of the biggest problems with our facility is lack of public relations. We are a nonprofit subsidiary of one of the largest health care systems in the state, and they have failed to promote our services. Period.

We have been open for six months, and still there are doctors in this town who do not know we exist. There have been no mass mailings to the medical community, no pens with our name on it to give away, no business cards, no refrigerator magnets, no television exposure, not a single billboard. They have TV ads for their physical rehab facilities, their heart center, their emergency room, and they have billboards all over town promoting the hospital, but none for us.

There are three local television stations. Each one of them has a spot on their early morning programs and on their noon programs that is dedicated to community affairs. Our so-called PR person has not taken advantage of this free publicity. We could promote our facility by calling and asking for time on one of those spots, send our Medical Director or one of the upper management team or one of us nurses to be interviewed. That’s so simple, I thought it up all by myself.

I can survive this draconian cut in pay, I think. A pay cut of one-third my salary is significant. It will mean changes in the way I live, but I can do it. What worries me is those on our staff who, like me, do not live in two-income households. They need their jobs to keep food on the table and clothes on their backs and those of their children.

I can barely make it with a pay cut, but most of them cannot. And all the while, we could all have job security if our parent company had just told the world that we are here.

Friends

Just the other day, while reading some of my favorite blogs, I ran across and very thought provoking post at Lauren Moderly’s very stylish and refreshing blog, Hipstercrite. Her blog keeps me tuned in to the younger generations, and she is a talented writer. I am linking you to her post, "The Definition of Friendship."

Her post made me think of our age difference and how it might color our ideas of friendship with a two completely different pallets. She is 27, and I am 63. You can do the math.

I have written about friendship before, but since reading Lauren’s piece, I have been examining the friendships I have had and how they happened, how some of them ended, how some of them have survived the tornados that periodically ravage my life.

I don’t have many friends, don’t really like or understand many people, which, to me, has to be at the core of a friendship. Understanding. A simple word when you write it down, but when you try to take it apart, it carries great weight and is buttoned up tightly, difficult to access. In the understanding at the heart of a friendship is also forgiveness, sacrifice and truth. You cannot have a friend unless you are willing to accept their flaws, forgive their sins and be open to hard truths.

So, how does it happen, this understanding that leads to friendship? Is it a chemical thing? Are we congenitally programmed to seek out people we can understand and that understand us? I believe so, but then, I believe in love at first sight. It happened to me. And all of my friendships have been at first sight also.

In her blog post, Lauren chronicles her friendships from early childhood. She, in a real sense, categorizes them.

The thing is, I don’t believe there are categories of friends. A friend is a friend, not an acquaintance or someone you network with online. I love my blogging friends from afar, but if we ever met, would that attraction hold up, make us friends, make us trust and understand one another? Think about it.

What about work? Do I have any friends at work? I don’t. I like and respect and admire the nurses and doctors and techs and secretaries with whom I work, but they are not my true friends. They will never “understand” me. They are my comrades, which isn’t the same thing as being my friend. Our differences are a large part of why we are an effective team. We share experiences every day and each, in his own way, processes those experiences differently. My true friends understand my reactions and responses, but that is not necessarily true in the workplace. There is nothing wrong with that. These are, for the most part, decent people who are valuable as human beings, but I don’t want to buddy up with my coworkers. I need to leave them at work, where they belong.

I’m friendly with my postman, the guy from Federal Express, my nail tech, my hairdresser, the pharmacist who fills my prescriptions, the cute girls who run the cupcake shop, the guy at the bank, my doctor, my insurance people and countless others, but they are not my friends. They are pleasant acquaintances and I enjoy seeing, speaking to and smiling at them.


My late husband I shared only three good, solid friends, the kind of friends you can call at four in the morning and confess that you are in jail for DWI, and they would haul themselves out of bed and come bail you out. On the other hand, we each had our own friends, just ours alone, and it worked for us. I didn’t try to get him to go out to dinner with my best friend, because he couldn’t stand to breathe the same air as her husband. That friendship belongs to just us girls.

They are disparate in nature, these friends, but we both loved them dearly, and two of them are still here for me now that Clint is gone. These people are my friends. What happened to the third one is a post in itself.

I was once invited to join a garden club, but when I discovered that I had only one friend in the group, I declined. Those organizations are for people network, get in with the right crowd. One doesn’t go out and look for friends. They just happen. At least the real ones do. Besides, I detest yard work.

I have been in relationships that I thought were friendships, but they were not. Either I stopped understanding them or they me, or maybe we never did understand one another. There’s nothing wrong with that. It happens. It hurts. But you move on.

Childhood friends rarely make it past seventh grade. Lauren skillfully illustrated that in her piece. I only had one childhood friend and one high school friend who survived the changes in our lives. My best friend from fourth grade, Mary Ellen, remained my friend through two of my mother’s marriages and all of the moves she put us through in order to satisfy her own needs. We landed back on Saint Simons Island the summer between ninth and tenth grades, and Mary Ellen and I fell right back into step. She was still my friend when she went off to school and I stayed home to go to nursing school. Marriage and work and living in different area codes did not chip away at our friendship. We were still close and understanding when she was diagnosed with lung cancer and died two months later. (I loathed her husband, a self-aggrandizing egoist writer who was also a drunk). And, yes, when I walked into Mrs. Medlin’s fourth grade class, Mary Ellen and I looked at each other and by first recess we were friends.

And then there is Don, first cousin of Mary Ellen’s husband, Jim. In an incredible example of synchronicity, Clint and I met him when she died. I had heard about him for years, a visual artist without a day job, talented watercolorist, who lived in Valdosta Georgia, but we had never met. It turned out that he disliked his cousin as much as I did. The night of Mary Ellen’s visitation, I was manning the phones at the house when Don walked in. We were instantly “in friend.” Amazingly, he and Clint were, too. We all fell into step, and Don , “Cuz,” as I like to call him, became part of the family. He got me through Christmas the last two year by coming to stay with me.

I am still very close to my friend from tenth grade, Shirley. We all called her The Squirrel, and we were friends at first sight. Fortunately, she was fond of Mary Ellen, too. Our friendship survived her five marriages and my two. She is now on number six. We may not talk but once or twice a month, but I know she is there, and she knows I am here. Our friendship survived my marrying a physician and her being broke all the time.

My best friend here in town, Nancy, recruited me to work in the Medical Intensive Care Unit shortly after my move to Macon - trying to escape my mother and my former husband. We had an interview and came away from it, well, friends. This friendship has had its ups and downs, but it is solid and has survived things like my husband not liking hers and her pulling away from me for several years back in the 80’s, then coming back into my life. We never discussed what happened or why, and at this time of life, who gives a rip? It happened, it un-happened and that is that.

I didn’t mean for this to turn into an essay about my friends, but it seems wrong not to include my other real friend. Her name is Fonda, and she is the strongest woman I have ever known. She lives in Augusta, Georgia, but we became friends when she lived in Macon. We worked together, but before that, we fell in friend at a conference in Vail, which I was attending to learn to teach people now to stop smoking in a program that she would manage at the hospital. She was my boss. I don’t have friends at work now, but she and I were friends before we started working together. By the time the conference was over, we were swilling champagne and telling stories about ourselves while our husbands were playing golf or fishing. She is one that I can call in the middle of the night.

So, friends, friendship. I don’t believe my ideas about it are different from Lauren’s. At the end of her piece, she had come to the conclusion that, “....being selective doesn’t necessarily mean bad.”

I believe, as wise as she already is, that her friend filter will become as well developed as mine. (Even if I am 36 years older than she).


© cj Schlottman

Relapse

When I returned from work on Thursday night, I thought I would be spending today with my son, Parrish. We had plans for him to fly to Atlanta yesterday and meet me there for a short two-night visit. I called his best friend, Michael, and made dinner plans with him and his wife, Ashley, for tonight.

The call came just as I was peeling off my scrubs and running a hot bubble bath. Fortunately, I had a drink in my hand, and there were no cigarettes in the house.

“Mama? I have news that is sort of bad and sort of good. I could lie to you and pretend nothing happened, but I have to be honest with you. Mama, you are all I have left in the world. I relapsed on Tuesday and got stoned on a handful of pills.”

“Oh, Parrish, I sighed. Are you still using or was it a one night thing?”

“It was a one night thing and I am back in outpatient rehab. I can’t come to Atlanta this weekend. My doctor says I should not be around you right now. I hope you don't see this as rejection. It’s me, for once, doing the right thing. Please don’t think I don’t love you.”

I have known for years that I am not good for Parrish. A painful truth, for sure, but in my own therapy, I have learned that it is so. He has an enormous amount guilt and shame about the way he acted over the years, and being around me, especially here at my little cottage, boils those feelings to the surface. We do better on neutral ground, but it is still a struggle for him, making him manic and bringing out his schizoid characteristics. When he was here in December, he was as manic as I have ever seen him, perseverating and inappropriate and unable to sleep and having the occasional hallucination. We were both miserable. My emotional energy was nil by the time he left, and he was just this side of blubbering.

“Aren’t you proud of me for doing the right thing? Don’t you think I’m taking responsibility for my own mistakes and working to clean up the mess I have caused? Please don’t have hurt feelings. I love you more than I can say, but I can’t come to Atlanta this weekend. I’m sorry about the airline ticket. Maybe you can get some credit towards another flight in the future. I hope you’re not disappointed in me. I think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you?”

Manic? He went on in that vein for a few minutes, until I interrupted him to say I was proud of him for owning his mistakes and trying to get back on track. I said not to worry about the plane ticket. I told him to take care of himself, that I was okay, that my feelings were not hurt, that I was very proud of him.

The miserable truth about this thing is that, far from being disappointed, I was relieved. And guilty. And sad. And hurt.

What kind of mother is relieved that she will not have time with her only child? How damaged does a relationship have to be for her to feel that way and say it out loud? I know what my therapist would say. She would say it is healthy to be honest with one’s self, that it is a marker of strength and willingness to own my feelings, no matter how negative they may be. She would be right, I believe, but that knowledge in no way makes this easier.

Parrish is 41 years old, and every year he becomes more childlike and needy. The medications that keep him precariously balanced on a tightrope of semi-sanity are also eating away at his liver, his kidneys. Before his disease finishes ravaging his brain, he will have regressed to the mentality of a preschooler.

He, college educated (BA, History), blessed with an eidetic memory, his good looks now ravaged by homelessness and self-abuse, has the mind of a 12 year old.

And he must start from the beginning - again - to get clean and sober. I am not so naive as to believe that Parrish slipped only once. Lately, he has not sounded sober, and when I have questioned him, he has blown it off as side effects from his medicine. Maybe this rehab experience will be the one that works - for good.

I don’t really believe it will, though. I’ve been down this road before.


© cj Schlottman

The Ginormous South

I have been on the road again. This time in Atlanta with my beautiful and talented and brilliant and athletic granddaughter, Addie, for The Big South Volleyball Tournament, from April 2 through April 4.

The Packing Thing went pretty well as I had a full day to devote to getting the job done without losing my mind. It was nonetheless a difficult thing for me.

I stowed Mr. Palmer in his travel bowl, then packed his glass bowl and food in the box with him. I could tell he was excited by the way he swam in circles so energetically. He does love to travel.

We arrived, Addie and I, at our hotel at around ten in the evening, after an uneventful handoff from Charles Cheeseman at the Chick Filet in Macon. They all live in Savannah, so Addie hitched a ride with them as far a Macon. Then I took her on to Atlanta. I love having her all to myself!



In all their wisdom (and I am sure in an attempt to keep the trip as cheat as possible), whoever does these things for Coastal Volleyball chose hotels on the top end of the perimeter (I-285). The tournament was held at the World Congress Center, which is in the heart of downtown Atlanta. Quite a commute.

We considered going in search of a late supper, but the room was cute and cozy, and by the time we got Mr. Palmer settled on the lamp table and my things unpacked, we changed our minds, deciding we had enough healthy stuff in the room to hold us over. The truth of the matter is that we were both bone tired. So, we ate apples and bananas and a few pieces of chocolate and some chips. I also ate a granola bar, thinking it would counterbalance the chocolate.

The Big South is a misnomer. It should be called the Ginormous South. Inside the World Congress Center were - count them - 144 volleyball courts. Now think about it. There are 12 players on each court, presumably a coach, a few players on the bench and an official. Then there were parents and siblings and friends, grandparents and the ubiquitous venders. I am sure I am leaving something out, but you get the idea. Hands down, it was one of the loudest places I have ever been. No, check that, it was the loudest place I have ever been - and I have been to the NCAA Final Four as well as in Italy when they won the World Cup. The players were cheering for one another, and so were all the members of their entourages. The sounds echoed and echoed some more in that incredibly large building. Then there were the screeches of the officials' whistles.

But I digress. Addie was scheduled to play at 4 PM on Friday. We slept late and grabbed some breakfast/lunch, then took a test ride to the World Congress Center to be sure we knew where we were going and how long it would take us to get there. I turned on the GPS loaded into my Blackberry, and off we went. We did well, found GA 400, which pretty much goes straight down to the I-75/I-85 connector. We even made the correct exit. Addie was navigating, and doing a good job of it, but I was having trouble determining which lane I should be in. I missed a couple of turns, and each time I did, the robotic voice of the GPS system started to squawk “as soon as safely possible, make a legal u-turn,” or “rerouting.”

I was insane. It was Friday in downtown Atlanta, a city famous for it’s traffic woes, and a robot was telling me where to go. There were horns blaring - at me and at dozens of other vehicles. There was the lady who rolled down her window and called me a name. Addie was laughing so hard, she was about to cry, and I began to talk back to the robot. I began to call it names. Addie laughed harder.

After we had been in the car for about an hour, we found the bleeping World Congress Center. By then, we were cutting it close to get back to the hotel and back downtown in time for Addie’s first game.

So, with Addie’s help, we (sort of) retraced our route and got back to the hotel just in time for her to jump into her uniform and grab her gear. We almost made it on time. By then, the infamous Atlanta traffic was snarled into its Friday afternoon insanity, everyone making a beeline for the suburbs.

We found the parking lot for our building, not knowing it was about a 15 minute (uphill) walk to the courts. Addie ran ahead, and I came along as fast as I could. Naturally, I had on the wrong pair of boots for hiking. I followed her, not taking my eyes off her in the distance. She overshot the entrance and we ended it going in the back way, sort of.

I have often heard it said that God takes care of children and old people. Believe it. It’s true. We arrived court side at 4:15, and the previous match just finishing up. We both took in a long breath and blew it out slowly.

Addie’s team played four matches - winning a few games but no matches - and we got out of there about 9:15. We found some delicious Mexican food at a place called Uncle Julios right up the street from our hotel. It was after 11:00 when we got to bed.

Saturday was basically a replay of Friday, only we knew where we were going, and there was no Friday Afternoon Madness on the streets and expressways of Atlanta. I had so hoped to take Addie shopping for a birthday present. She turned 16 on April 11. But there was no time for anything except volleyball and eating and sleeping.

There was one glaring difference on Saturday, though. After playing their matches, each team is required to “ref” the next match, and I, of course, stayed in my seat to watch the match while Addie kept score. The next two teams arrived. One of the mother’s sat down beside me and said it was time for me to give up my seat. I looked up and down the row of folding chairs that lined the court, and there was one empty seat next to me and three or four adult men and a bunch of children taking the other seats.

“You are being very rude taking a seat while our team is playing.”

I politely told her that I was there to watch my granddaughter keep score.

Plop! The chair beside me was taken by another woman, and an ample woman at that. She and her friend began to shout across me about how rude I was.

“I’ll be happy to trade seats with one of you ladies if you want to chat.”

“We want you to leave.” This from the plump plopper on my right.

I looked into her eyes and said politely, “Bless your heart. I don’t know where you are from, but in The South, grandmothers do not stand while men and children are sitting. If every man and child leaves his seat and there are not extra chairs, I will stand, but not until then.”

So they went to Plan B, and the heffer to my right stuck her left leg out and pulled her jeans up to reveal what looked like the worst case of poison ivy I ever saw. The scabs were enormous, and they will covered by some sort of pasty looking cream. Gag.

“Look here, I have this highly contagious disease, and it’s not smart for you to sit next to me. It is very, very contagious.”

“Then, bless your heart, you should cover it up and in the interest of public safety, leave this building filled with over 2000 people. You wouldn’t want to start an epidemic, would you?”

I turned to the woman on my left, looked straight into her eyes, and said, “Bless your heart, this little plan will not chase me away. I am not afraid of your friend’s rash.”

Then they fell back on Plan C and tried to run me off by whistling and screaming at the tops of their lungs. The one to my right leaned over in her seat, and her butt crack was clearly visible. No scabs there. Now, THAT might run me off.

When their team lost it’s first game, they both shut up and the butt crack/rash woman got up and rumbled away.

On Sunday morning, we packed up our things and Mr. Palmer and made our way to the tournament on time for Addie’s team to play their final matches. By previous agreement, I stayed for one match, then I left to go home, worried that Mr. Palmer might be too hot in the car.

Addie and I exchanged “I love yous” and hugged for a long time.

I did not want to leave. I wish she lived next door to me. I love her so. Her team, which was pretty much cobbled together at the last minute and suffered from poor coaching, didn’t win even one match. She was very mature and philosophic about it all. Though intensely competitive, she is not a sore loser.

She is the finest gift my son, Parrish, has ever given me.


© cj Schlottman

The 48 Hour Day

03/25/2011


At work, about 8:30, my cell phone vibrated. It was Danny, the owner of the ALF in Miami where my son Parrish lives. He called to tell me Parrish was missing, had been for two days - 48 hours - and that he was going to call the police and have him officially declared a missing person.

My throat tightened as though my head were being twisted off, and my breath came in short gasps. In the past when Parrish went missing, the news was never good. I had visions of him vanishing for months without a word. I instinctively saw him drunk and/or drugged, reeling down some sidewalk somewhere, homeless and in physical and mental anguish, his possessions stolen or traded for drugs or alcohol. I even envisioned him dead, either by his own hand or that of another.

Danny said he called all of the local hospitals. Parrish periodically checks into hospital when he feels as though his disease is out of control, usually when he feels manic, but recently because he was having suicidal thoughts. Danny even called the police to see if Parrish had been arrested.

I turned away from the others. In spite of myself, I melted down to a pool of pathetic, gelatinous disquiet, tears flowing over the rims of my lower lids in spite of any attempt on my part to make them magically melt away.

I stumbled into the locker room, balancing myself on the counter, only just able to stand, listening to Danny’s voice, which had gone muddled and slurred in my ear. I stood still, tried to process this news and keep my head afloat in the tsunami of emotions that flooded my brain, made my body prickle, almost buckled my knees.

I had to ask Danny to repeat himself twice before I could hear what he said. He sounded calm, reassuring. He promised to call me with any news. We rang off, and I squeezed my phone as though I could will it to ring with good news.

This could not be happening again - not after all the months of sobriety, all the efforts to regulate his medicines, to keep him in a sheltered environment because he cannot function without an external support system. As much as he complains about assisted living, he cannot function without it.

I stood frozen in place as though my feet were nailed to the floor, unable to move or speak, wanting to open my mouth and scream but unable to utter a sound. I labored to organize myself, affect some sort of composure.

When I emerged, the others looked at me with great concern, wanted to know if I were okay.

”No,” I said. “My mentally ill son has been missing for 48 hours.”

I turned and walked back to the locker room, not knowing whether to go home or try to function at work. After some thought, I concluded that going home would be the worst thing I could do. I envisioned myself lying in bed with the covers pulled over my head, or maybe sitting in the floor of my closet with the door closed, poisoning myself with worry, weeping and pulling down one of my shirts and screaming into it. No, going home was not the answer.

So, I went to my manager’s office, closed the door and spilled my guts all over her. The tears returned. She sat and listened, a look of compassion on her face. There was a period of silence broken only by me blowing my nose.

“What do you want to do?” she asked. “What will help you through this? Do you want to go home? No, you shouldn’t be alone now, not like this. Take all the time you need to gather yourself together, and I will give your patients to Janet, let her handle the drugs, and you be her assistant. Stay with us, at least until you have some word.”

The hours dragged on as I tried to be half a nurse. It’s not easy to be half a nurse, and without thinking, I medicated one of my patients. I should have gone to Janet and let her handle it, but I forgot all about
being half a nurse. The woman needed medicating, so I did it.

Janet was not happy.

“You are confusing me,” she snapped. “Do you want to take your patients back or leave them with me? I can’t deal with you and me both taking care of them.”

She was right, of course. I apologized, said I wasn’t myself, that maybe I should have gone home.

“Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“I want you to keep the patients, and I will help at the desk or just go sit with one of my little ladies, keep her company while she no visitors. “

“Are you sure? I can’t be half a nurse any more than you can, and you are compromised. You really are not yourself.”

“Okay, I mumbled,” stinging from her tone but knowing that she was right.

Time continued to creep along, and finally, at 6:00, I left to go home - an hour early. When I reached my car, I called Danny for news.

“We found him. He’s in hospital in Hollywood.”

“That’s so far from you. How did he get there? What is wrong?” I croaked.

“He is on his way back here, so I will get him to call you when he arrives. Don’t worry. He is okay.”

I rang off, put my head down on the steering wheel and sobbed myself dry, feeling twisted and distorted, a black hole, completely at the mercy of my much wounded heart. Afraid to drive, I went back inside and sat and drank a cup of coffee and waited for my heart to stop skipping and shuttering, taking my energy with it.

As the night nurses came in, I got up and went back to my car, cranked it and crept home in the twilight, focused hard on the road which stretched out in front of me forever. I finally saw my house.

Home. My bed, my dogs, my stuff.

I was undressing when my phone vibrated in my pocket.

“Mama? Did Danny call you? I’ve been in the hospital in Hollywood for two days, but don’t worry. I went up there to eat supper with my friend Carlos, and on the way back to the train station, I passed out, woke up in the emergency room. My lithium level was three times the therapeutic level. There were IVs going into my arms in three places. I didn’t have my phone card, so I couldn’t call anyone, but I’m okay now. Finally, they called Danny late today. I’m back at the ALF, and everything is okay, really it’s okay. I don’t want you to worry.”

I sighed.

“Danny called and told me you were missing. I knew you would turn up. I didn’t worry. Really, I knew you were some place safe. Now go and get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

My dogs were already in bed, giving me that worried look they get when they know I am in trouble. I peeled off my scrubs and underwear, left them in a pile on the floor, fell into bed naked and slept the sleep of the dead.


© cj Schlottman

Author’s note: This event took place nearly two weeks ago, but it has taken me this long to distance myself far enough from it to write it down in a coherent fashion.

Being Me - Or One Little Old Lady and Two Dogs Hit the Road

I have a Packing Thing. Packing to go anywhere sends me into a tailspin. I religiously make lists and check and recheck to make sure I haven't forgotten anything and still I’m a nervous wreck. The Packing Thing starts chewing away at me a couple of days before the actual packing is to take place. If ever there were a case for prescribing Valium for little old ladies, this is it.

So, on Saturday morning, I took my dogs to the beauty parlor and came home to - dum-ta-dum-dum - pack for our long weekend on Sea Island. But first I had to shower and wash my curly mop of graying brown hair so it would be dry by the time I was ready to pick up the dogs.

I packed two smallish bags for a short trip, sometimes walking in circles and gnashing my teeth. Don’t ask why I was so anal about a trip that was supposed to be a personal retreat. I don’t know myself.

Did I remember my medicine and my hair fixing stuff? Check. Jeans and boots? Check. Pajamas and a warm-up suit (for walking the dogs and myself)? Check. Toothbrush? And yes, I have gone off without my toothbrush. Check. And so it went. I took my new 3-pound dumbbells in the trunk of the car so I wouldn’t forget them. They are blue, a perfect match for my new workout pants, and I pictured myself walking along Ocean Road while pumping them energetically.

I cleaned Mr. Palmer’s bowl and put him in the box I use to take him on the road, making sure I packed his food. He’s a Betta, dark blue with fabulously flowing fins. Yes, I do take my fish when I am going to be gone for more than one night. I think he likes the adventure of going someplace new. He seems to, anyway. I carefully placed his travel box on the floor of the passenger’s seat and surrounded it with stuff (my laptop and some other things), so the movement of the car wouldn’t splosh him all around and make him seasick. Satisfied that Mr. Palmer would have a smoothe ride, I stumbled back into the house to finish packing and, oh yeah, dress for the trip.

I packed my cooler with three Lean Cuisines, my almond milk and a carton of nonfat half and half. I use those little things you store in the freezer to keep things cold. There was room for a bottle of wine, so I tucked in a bottle of Trader Joe’s Chardonnay. (You just can’t hide class, can you)?

Then I packed the dogs’ bag, measuring food into a big plastic zippered bag so we wouldn’t give out, making sure there were two kinds of treats for them, one chewy kind and one crunchy kind. You would think I were going to a monastery, not to the coast where they actually have stores that sell dog food.

Are you sensing and OCD pattern here?

With everything packed and in its place, I set the alarm, made sure all the locks were secured and fired up the old Lincoln that was Clint’s and started down the driveway. I hit the brakes. Where was the skirt I planned to bring? The tops to go with my jeans? Uh-oh. I turned off the car, went back into the house and found my hang-up things dangling from a hook on the swinging door between the kitchen and great room. I placed them carefully in the trunk on top of my other things and once more got in the car, cranked it up and headed to Petsmart to fetch the dogs and get on my way.

It was a slow and rambling trip from Macon. We took mostly back roads to avoid all the spring-breakers on the interstates. We ambled along through little towns with courthouse squares and past pastures where cows were grazing and fields turned over for seeding. There were old falling-down barns blanketed with wisteria, and acres-wide pecan groves that stretched out on both side of the road. Lots of people out in the country were having yard sales. Though tempted to stop at a couple of them I reminded myself that I am simplifying my life, not looking to clutter it up any more than it already is.

I rolled down the windows to breathe in the perfumed spring air, and Belle pushed her nose out of the half-opened back window to take it in, too. I opened the sun roof and before long, my hair was standing up all over my head.

The trip took about four hours, and I listened to "The Help" while tooling down the road. The Packing Thing behind me, I allowed myself to relax, enjoy the scenery and the book. One time, I pulled over thirty miles outside of Macon to check the trunk. No shit. I really did that. Aside: Don’t read "The Help," listen to it! Four women narrate it beautifully.

I have a sticker on my windshield that gets me on Sea Island without having to stop at the gate and convince the attendant that this wild-haired little old lady with a Boxer and a Lhasa Apso in the back seat of her 14 year old Lincoln Town Car is really a guest of the Smith’s at 502 Ocean Road.

With that behind me, I moseyed down The Drive, taking in the glorious spectacle of the live oaks that line it. With the windows still down, I realized my car was squeaking every time we hit a dip in the road. Shit. The roads on the barrier islands all have dips in them. It’s because the dirt underneath shifts. I worried that Mr. Palmer might throw up in his bowl. I had known for weeks that I needed new bushings but had put off having them installed, and there I was, in one of the three richest zip codes in the USA- squeaking.

So, it was with an abashed smile that I squeaked up to the gate and told the gate keeper at Ocean Forest that I was a guest of the Smiths. He frowned and peered into the back seat at the dogs. Then he shuffled through a stack of passes, not finding one with my name on it. Shit a blue brick! He eyed me suspiciously, and I offered to call Deidra for him. I pulled forward, letting the car behind me pass while I squeaked over every little dip in the road. I stopped to call Deidra. Thank God she picked up. I took the phone to the Gate Nazi, and he filled out a pass for me, handed it to me with an disapproving sniff and gave my car a long cold stare, like he could stare the squeaking out of it.

Before I unpacked the car, I walked the dogs, a silver doggie-doo bag hanging out of each pocket of the old scrubs I decided to travel in. Belle and Honey knew what they were supposed to do, and they did it, me following along with the bags so as not to leave any dog-doo on anyone’s pristine lawn.

I unpacked the car and hauled my stuff upstairs to “my” room. I could have used the elevator, but I couldn’t remember how to operate it. Besides, walking stairs is good for one’s soul, not to mention one’s fanny.

“My” bedroom is the best place in the whole house for enjoying the glorious views of the Atlantic, the Hampton River and the marshes and creeks winding their way toward Little Saint Simons Island. I opened the door to the balcony, stepped out, leaned over the rail, and breathed deeply of the salty air. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world.

I unzipped my bags and began putting my things away. I hate it when my things smell like luggage, so I always unpack as soon as I can. I trudged back downstairs to get my hang-up things so I could put them in the closet. I didn’t even make a drink before I unpacked.

Even I was amazed at what I dragged out of those bags. (Gentlemen, you may want to skip this part). Two pairs of jeans - one black, one blue, two pairs of boots to match the jeans, my workout clothes, two pairs of socks and nine, count them - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, NINE pairs of panties. There was one pink cotton granny pair, two black satin ones and SIX pairs of nude ones that are not supposed to leave a panty line. (They don’t work). I can't wait to hear what my therapist has to say about that.

What was more amazing is what I didn’t drag out of those bags. Not a bra in sight, of any color or texture. There I stood in my scrubs with a sports top on underneath and not a single real bra to be found. I routinely take two black ones and two nude ones, but oh no, not this time. I didn’t even pack more sports bras. I would spend four days and three nights in the same sports bra. It’s humid on the coast, so I couldn’t just rinse it out every night and hang it on the balcony rail to dry. Not only would the neighbors have a hissy fit, but it wouldn’t dry anyway in all that humidity. I would have to use the dryer.

I had managed to pack a lint brush, a bottle of Rogaine, Honey’s brush, three brown hair bands and one red one, most of my toiletries, two iPods with cords and ear buds, one cord that didn’t belong to anything, but no charger for the iPods or my Blackberry. I figured a way to charge my iPods by syncing them through my laptop and decided to just turn off my Blackberry, but I still didn’t have a single brassiere. What would I wear to Jim’s class in the morning? The sports top that makes me flat as a pancake? I had four turtleneck tees, two short sleeved and two long, and a cashmere sweater jacket that Clint bought for me the last time we were in Scotland that was way too heavy for the weather.

I remembered to bring the little packs of instant Starbucks - one decaf, the other regular - but failed to bring my fiber. I had green tea and sugar free Peeps to snack on. Don’t laugh. They are delicious, but if you eat too many, you’ll get some pretty noxious gas.

Close your eyes, boys.

It was while I was taking inventory of what I did NOT have that I got the first inkling that I just might have, I’m whispering now, a yeast infection. I sure as hell didn’t have anything to fix that. For the love of God, I had brought three Lean Cuisines just so I wouldn’t have to go to the store, just so I could really be on retreat with no outside distractions other than Jim’s Sunday School class. I decided to go to the store after I attended his class the next morning.

Boys. it is now safe to read on.

Making sure that Mr. Palmer was happy in his usual place on the kitchen island, I fed him then made myself a martini with three olives, sat down in front of the TV, and, breaking my promise to myself, turned it on and watched us bombing Libya for a while and tried not to cuss myself out for being such a fruitcake.

On Sunday morning, I showed up late for Jim’s class looking like Johnny Cash in drag and wearing a curly brown wig. I was in black from tip to toe, decked out in my favorite black top (which has diagonal ruffles that camouflaged my flatness) over black jeans with black cowboy boots peeping out from under the hems. My socks were even black. I’m not sure why I think it makes a tinker’s damn what I wore to Sunday School, but something just made me include it in this ridiculous tale. And by the way, when I was driving to church, I noticed that my car was no longer squeaking.

On the way back to Sea Island, I stopped at CVS to pick up you-know-what and found out that you can actually buy sports tops there. I helped myself to three so as to avoid washing anything while on retreat.

The remainder of my retreat revolved around writing and walking the dogs and walking myself. Belle made two escapes, but I managed to hem her up before she could poop on the neighbors’ lawns. No TV, no Blackberry, nothing but contemplative silence in which to think and write and enjoy the splendid vistas across the river to the sea. Okay, okay. I did check my email, but I cranked out two blog posts and this preposterous yarn.

On Tuesday morning, as we crossed the Sea Island causeway headed for Saint Simons and the mainland, I rolled down the windows, opened the sun roof and noticed that the old car was squeaking again. Maybe the Gate Nazi really did stare the squeak out of it...........


© cj Schlottman

Synchronicity Redux

The view from this house is of the Hampton River, the Atlantic Ocean and Little Saint Simons Island. Last night was a Super Moon, and I sat outside with my dogs and watched it come up over the Atlantic, spilling bright orange ribbons of light over the dark waters of the river. It will be about 20 years before such a moon will be seen from the planet earth, and I hope to be around to see it.

It was breathtaking, this phenomenon of nature. I sat and stared at it, awed by its beauty and grateful for my opportunity to see it here in this place - my friend Deidra’s house on the northern tip of Sea Island, one of coastal Georgia’s magnificent barrier islands.

Today is the Spring Equinox, the tide is high, and a northeastern wind has driven the tidal water up into the marshes, making a large lake of them. When I think I almost canceled this trip, I begin to wonder if things really do happen for a reason.

I am in the process of rescuing a Boxer I met at Kottage Kennels, where I board Honey and Belle when I can’t take them with me. He was shot with buckshot, his ear was cut, and he was eaten up with heart worms when he got to the kennel. He was in a large cage just inside the front door, and there was a sign saying, “I AM UP FOR ADOPTION.” I loved the fact that his tail and ears had never been docked. I looked at him, he caught my gaze, and it was love at first sight.

I asked about adopting him, and the kennel owner said he had completed his heart worm treatment, but that he would not be able to leave the kennel for four to six weeks. His veterinarian wants to make sure he is well enough to run and play with other dogs. His name is Sugar Ray, but I’m shortening it to Sugar. I get that he was named for a boxer, but I deplore that violent "sport."

On Friday, before I began packing for this trip, I phoned Kottage Kennels to see if I could have Sugar this weekend, while I have six days off in a row, thinking it would be the ideal time to integrate him into our home. The vet said he wanted to keep Sugar quiet for at least two more weeks, so, disappointed, I packed my things into the trunk of the car, leaving the back seat free for Honey and Belle, and down the road we came.

This is going to come together, I promise. If I could have moved Sugar into the house this weekend, I would have stayed home. But, through my disappointment I received a great gift. When I am here, I attend a Sunday School class taught by my friend, Jim Gilbert. I don’t go to church and Jim’s is the only class I attend. He puts an amazingly cerebral twist into his lessons and I always come away in a introspective frame of mind. It always leads to self evaluation and research into the Bible verses upon which Jim builds his classes. Today was no exception, and I will be focusing on the the Holy Spirit for a while.

After the class, I walked over to a regular member and reintroduced myself. He is a boat captain for a wealthy Atlantan, and Clint went on fishing trips with him before he got sick. When introduced to John’s wife, I learned that I had cared for her aunt when she died at Pine Pointe. I actually pronounced her dead. John also knew one of our first patients. Then we discovered other threads of synchronicity - friends in common, his Macon friends, my Saint Simons friends. It felt like being reconnected with some of my roots here, and it felt right.

It is right that I am here, giving myself the gift of a small one-woman retreat. If I had stayed in Macon, the Super Moon would not have been clearly visible from my little house. Certainly it would not have been sending out gleaming rays over the river. I would have missed Jim’s very thought provoking lesson this morning and, and I would have missed reconnecting with John.

Maybe things really do happen for a reason?


© cj Schlottman
03/20/2011

Afraid of Me - An Exorcise?

I don’t know when it happened, but I realized the other day that, at times, I am afraid of myself. Why am I afraid of me? I think this would qualify as one of Rosemary's "exorcises."

I suppose the best example of being afraid of myself is how I felt when I went back to work last year. I second-guessed myself at every turn, scared that I would make a mistake and be judged harshly for it. That’s just one of a list of examples of how my self worth was so wrapped up with Clint. He truly made me believe I was bulletproof.

It happened when I began to write in earnest after Clint died. I wrote and shredded piece after piece, thinking them unworthy, not good enough for anyone to want to read them. There was no Clint to buoy me. Any time I got in over my head (or I thought I was), he was my life vest, the force that kept me afloat. My self-confidence was long in returning.

And there are still times when I’m afraid of myself. It happened again when my job changed, and I began working inpatient hospice instead of home care. I come from an era of nursing when we always checked each other off when giving opioids. So, that’s what I did - and it backfired on me. The other nurses began to think I was unsure of myself, that I didn’t know what I was doing - and instead of talking to me, they told my manager about it. That’s when I got afraid of myself again.

Thank God for Nettie and Karen. They are sisters. Nettie is one of the best nurses on our team, and Karen is the best clinical tech I've ever worked with. They collectively took me under their wings, told me what the others were saying about me, and mapped out a plan for my success. Still I was afraid of myself, but after a couple of weeks of their tutelage, I began to soar, believe in myself. The result has been that I am confident in my work and getting better at it every day.

Self fear, or whatever a psychiatrist would call it, has not been limited to my employment and my writing. After my experience with the MF (Man Friend), I became unsure of myself in social situations. I, who have always been at ease with others, hated being the odd woman out and didn’t know what to do with myself when friends invited me to join them. So, I developed a kind of phobia about going out with couples. I wanted Clint back, still do. He was the other half of us.

But I made myself go, and I also began taking my 82 year old friend, Frances, out to dinner one night every week.

See a trend here? I am conquering my fears of myself. There’s probably a 12-step program for people like me. I’m in recovery! It could happen again and probably will, but I will recognize what’s happening and start a support group!


© cj Schlottman
03/18/2011

A Day at Hospice House - The Conclusion

This is the final post of a series I am writing about my job. I hope it will serve to heighten awareness of hospice care and answer some questions my readers may have and give them information that they can pass on to others. To begin at the beginning, click here.

My new patient is a heartbreaker, an eight year old with brain cancer. He is here for what we call Respite Care, a time for caregivers to take a breath, catch up on their rest and in general, recharge. His mother will stay with him here, but she will not have to worry about meals or too much company. We will take care of that. It is 12:30, and I have orders for my little boy, so I can get him settled as soon as he arrives.

Checking on my patient in Room 412, I find him again having jerky tremors and wearing a frown. I give him more medicine, then I call his doctor and ask for an order for a continuous drip. This sliding in and out of pain and agitation is hard on him - and on his family. A continuous drip will deliver a metered amount of the drug every hour. I order the drip from our infusion center, and they agree to deliver it as soon as possible.

It’s 1:30, and I have actually had time to sit down and eat my lunch - a diet entrée I brought from home. On this rare day, all of us nurses eat together.

Out again to check on my charges, I find the patient in room 406 becoming agitated again and short of breath, so I give him a bolus of morphine and titrate his pump up by 1 mg per hour, then I give him some Ativan and call his doctor and ask for an additional drip - one of Ativan. I get the order and fax it off to the infusion center. Now I am waiting for two drips.

2:30 and my young patient has not arrived. We nurses are all anxious about his admission. Each in our own way, we dread having young patients. It seems so wrong for them to be dying, never having had a chance to live a full life.

I check on my patients and all is well for now. The drips arrive at the same time, and I am tied up for nearly an hour getting them started. In addition to programming a new pump for my patient in room 406, I must start another subcutaneous infusion site.

3:30 and still no word from our youngster. The phone rings, and when our secretary answers, she quickly hands the phone to me. There has been a scene at the home of our little boy involving his divorced parents. His father has taken him to his house, and his mother has called the police to report his father for violation of their custody agreement. The police have arrested the father and returned the child to his mother. Whew. What a mess.

At 4:30, our little man arrives with his mother. He is hysterical. Hysteria is not uncommon in patients with brain cancer, but this little boy has been torn from his mother’s arms, retrieved by the police and taken to a strange place where all he sees is nurses in scrubs, never mind that we are all dressed in soothing pastels. All he sees is strangers dressed just like all the other strangers who have prodded and poked and in general assaulted him with chemo and radiation and needles.

I shoo everyone out of the room, then I leave myself. These people deserve some peace, and it is my job to make sure they have some.

I tend to my other patients, both of whom are resting quietly.

Then I spend an hour sorting out the medicines that arrived with our eight year old. He has been in hospice care at home for some time, and there are many drugs to sort through. I separate out the opioids and lock them in the med room. The others, I take to his mother so she can administer them to him as she did at home.

Ester, my great friend and hospice mentor, checks on my other patients for me. I didn’t have to ask her. Teamwork is what makes this possible. Without it, we would all sink under the burden of all that this job piles on our heads - frustration, sadness, feeling torn between patients, and yes, fatigue.

Back on my feet, I reclaim my patients and prepare to give report to the night nurses. They will start arriving around 6:30, and I want to be prepared to give them a coherent and factual report.

At 6:45, we count opioids and the count is correct. My flow sheets for continuous drips are in order, so I give report, pass along the flow sheets and other medication records, and prepare to leave.

I drive home in the dark, just as I had arrived in the dark. Daylight savings time will start this weekend, so I can look forward to leaving during daylight on Monday afternoon. My dogs are happy to see me and I them. I feed them and sit on the deck while they play and take care of business.

A hot bath with the jets running in the tub - then off to bed, where I write a little but mostly stare blankly at the TV. 4:45 AM will be here soon after I close my eyes.


© cj Schlottman 03/13/2011

Steps to Meeting my Goals

My writing mentor, Rosemary Daniell, leads an ongoing writer’s workshop in Savannah called Zona Rosa on the first Saturday every month except August, when we are on sabbatical. The group has been ongoing for 30 years! A wonderful and acclaimed published writer and poet, Rosemary has other ongoing workshops and does guest appearances all over the country, speaking and teaching at writing events, retreats and festivals. She even leads retreats abroad. There is a retreat in Aix en Provence, France, in May. The Saturday group is exclusively for women, and we have members who range in age from their twenties to their eighties.

Learn more about Rosemary and her workshops by visiting her web site - Secrets of the Zona Rosa.

One of the many creative aspects of our group is that, each month, Rosemary gives us a list of “exorcises,” topics designed to keep our writing fresh, creative and real. These "exorcises" are not mandatory, but some very good writing has come out of them. They are designed to keep us writing our truths. They can be very therapeutic. It is from Rosemary that I learned how important truth is to good writing.

So, today I am publishing my “exorcise” here on The Red Sweater.

Here is a sample of a few “exorcises” from last weekend:
“How my awareness of mortality affects my thinking and writing.”
“How my house speaks to my writing.”
“Steps I am taking to meet my goals.”
"Write about the thing you most don't want to write about."

I fell headlong into “Steps I am taking to meet my goals.” A little voice in my head tells me that Rosemary was looking for text on writing goals, but I turned it on its side and went in another direction.

My goal is to maintain what semblance of sanity I have left. Here are some steps I am taking to keep my sanity:

1) After all these months, I feel as though Clint died yesterday, not on June 8, 2019 at 6:33 PM. I was unprepared to be actively grieving 21 months later, but here I am, still on the roller coaster of relative peace followed by reactivation of my grief. Stress at work, stress in my personal life, hearing a certain song, gazing at a photo of us dancing at a wedding, smiling, our eyes locked on one another, his side of the bed, stretching out like the ocean reaching toward the horizon - these are just a sample of the things that can leave me unbalanced, sad, helpless.

My Rx? Work, work, work. Write, write, write, especially in my paper journal. When not at work, I find myself fighting an inertia that is difficult to describe. My house is a mess, my housekeeper has been out for three weeks with a sick child, and I hate housework. I sacrifice in other areas in order to have someone come into my house and clean it for me. But, today I am going to attack this little cottage with my Swiffer products and elbow grease - after I come home from the gym, where I have been going every day I’m not at work. I carry a three pound weight in each hand and walk hills on the treadmill for an hour. That, I am certain is helping me keep my balance.

2) The conundrum that is my son, Parrish - mentally ill, as most of you know. He has been putting pressure on me to come back to Georgia, to Atlanta, where he once lived on the streets and in parks and under bridges. I would rather go to prison than see him back in Atlanta, and I have told him so. Nevertheless, he continues his passive-aggressive attempts to change my mind. He has been in hospital three times since he was here in December, and I believe that all three were attempts to get me to jump on a plane and come rescue him. His last hospitalization happened when he checked himself into the psych ward at University of Miami Hospital, saying he was having suicidal thoughts. He called me to let me know where he was but refused me access to his doctor. Last month it was his back (two failed fusions). He said the doctor wanted him to have more surgery but one more refused to give me access to his physician.

My Rx? I love him from afar and refuse to be drawn into another enabling web with him. I am sympathetic when he calls to tell me his troubles, but I refuse to intervene in his life. I have found that, if I simply listen and refuse to buy into his “crisis du jure,” it mysteriously goes away. His illness makes it so hard to detach from him. I do worry about him, but the stark naked reality is that he cannot live with me or in Atlanta. So, we do the best we can. On April 16, I will fly him to Atlanta, where I will meet him, and we will stay two nights. He will be able to see his oldest friend, Michael. Now he has something to look forward to, and my fervent hope is that it will keep him focused on that and not on his living situation, and assisted living facility which is not optimal. Unfortunately, I cannot escape the belief that, when the weekend is over and he returns to Hileah, he will be in hospital within a week, sad and depressed that he could not stay in Atlanta. It is impossible for him to make the best of things and focus on what he has instead of what he has not.

Sure, these are mental health goals, but I think they are as important as writing goals.

So, Rosemary, this post is for you!


© cj Schlottman 03/11/2011

A Day at Hospice House - Part Three

This is Part Three of a series I am writing about my work. To start at the beginning, click, here.


My patient in Room 412 is a sweet little man who took himself off of dialysis a week ago. It is unlikely that he will live another week. When I arrive at his bedside to do his assessment, he is having dramatic tremors of both hands and arms. He is been medicated with Ativan every four hours, and he is still restless and agitated, the toxins that should be filtered by his kidneys building up in his system.

I manage to get him assessed, then I visit with his very anxious family, his wife and daughter. I wonder out loud to them if our sweet man is in pain, though he denies having any. Thinking about it, I note that his tremor gets much worse if we touch him - anywhere on his body. I suggest to them that we might want to give him some hydromorhone (Dilaudid), which is ordered for him to receive every three hours for pain.

Back to the med room for an injection for him. He has a subcutaneous infusion site, a soft catheter inserted under the skin around his belly button, and when I return to the room at 10:10, I inject the diluted drug slowly and flush the site. I sit at his side, talking softly with the family, and wait to see how the hydromorphone will affect his pain. Ten minutes pass, and he is asleep. I touch his hand, and it remains still. He is snoring loudly when I leave the room.

(Aside, I love subcutaneous infusion sites. They are much easier on the patient, need to be changed less often than IV sites. There is little chance that the patient will pull it out - a win/win for patient and nurse).

At 10:15, later than usual, I open the electronic charts for all three patients, quickly making notes. The doctor has visited, and I check my charts for new orders. There are none, thank goodness, so I slurp on my cold coffee and go back to see about my man in 406.

I find him still sleeping and spend some time with his family, answering questions and encouraging them. We give all of our families a booklet that explains the dying process, but most of them cannot absorb at first reading. I go over the signs with them and encourage them to go back to the booklet and read it again.

Returning to Room 411 to find my little lady having longer periods of apnea. More family is in the room, a daughter and a son and daughter-in-law. I look at her feet. They are cold and mottled and her legs are cool to the knees. Her nail beds a cyanotic, and she is approaching the end of life. More family is on the way. I sit with them and offer support, trying to field questions like: “How long will it be?” “How long can she go on like this?”

Some questions are impossible to answer, but I tell them I believe the end is imminent, that if they want to give my sweet patient permission to leave, they should do it now. Sometimes, patients need to be assured that their families will be all right, and if they need to leave, they can. Hearing is believed to be the last sense to go at end of life, and even though she is now in a coma, I encourage them to talk to her.

They each in turn take her little hand and whisper how much they love her and that if she is too tired to live, it is all right to go to the light.

I tiptoe out of the room and find my little man in Room 412 snoring away. I touch his hand, his arm, his face, and he continues to sleep without tremors. We are all relieved, the family and I, that he is peaceful.

Returning to Room 411, I sit with the family as their dear loved one takes in her final breath. I put my stethoscope to her chest and hear no heartbeat. She is not breathing, and I pronounce her time of death at 11:15 AM. I quietly tell the family to take all the time they need to be with their dear one, to call me when they are ready for me to call the funeral home. They want her to stay until other family members can come.

Back at the desk, there are forms to be filled out, and I enter a death note into my patient’s chart.

Then it’s back down the hall to check on the two patients I have left. Returning to the desk, I learn that I have an admission coming..............For the conclusion, click here.


© cj Schlottman